by S. J. Rozan
“He’s crazy, Linus.”
“Well, yeah.” Linus seemed awestruck. “But still . . .”
“But guys,” Trella broke in. “He said he moved first prize. That means the baby’s somewhere else, not with Lydia now. And Kevin’s on his way there.”
I pressed into the shadows as a patrol car drifted by. Strawman had lost Kevin, but maybe the presence of so many cops would drive Kevin to ground, or at least slow him down.
“Guys?” Trella said. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Wherever. Don’t you think we should get off the street? I texted Joey. He’s here.”
Another thing I’d forgotten: Joey, and the fact that we had wheels. I watched the Lincoln float to a halt beyond the row of parked cars at the curb. We dashed from the loading dock and piled into the car, Woof barking and climbing all over Linus and Trella in the backseat. He lunged forward and gave me a few slobbers, too, as Joey pulled out.
“Dog missed you guys,” Joey drawled. “I hadda let him up front with me. Where to?”
“Dude.” Linus frowned in thought. “When Mr. Crazy said he moved first prize, that was when we picked him up in Times Square.”
“I had the same thought. Joey, head uptown.”
“You got it. All that cop action back there, that was you?”
“Yeah.” I took out my prepaid phone.
“You gonna call the ex again?” Linus asked. “From that?”
“No. You know Mary’s number?”
“Aunt Mary?” He blanched. “No, but it’s here.” He took out his iPhone and read it to me.
A ring and a half; just long enough to yank a phone out of a pocket.
“Kee.”
“Mary, it’s Bill.”
“Bill? Where the hell are you?”
“Lydia’s downtown,” I said. “In a basement. Kevin Cavanaugh was down around Crosby Street and now I think he’s on his way uptown, somewhere near Times Square. Blanket the route with cops, you might pick him up.”
“Why are you suddenly interested in us picking him up?”
“He’s planning on making a stop and then leaving town without telling me where Lydia is. Mary, she’s running out of air.”
“I know. We’re already searching. Where are you?”
“How do you know?”
“Lu told us. He said Cavanaugh said so. Who the hell was on the roof with them? The guys below said some girl was dangling from the flagpole until someone pulled her up, but when they finally got up there it was only Lu and one of his boys. Lu said it was him on the flagpole, trying to catch Cavanaugh. That’s bullshit, right? It was Linus’s girlfriend, it was Trella, wasn’t it?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t!”
“Mary? He took a baby.”
“A baby?”
“About six months old. His ex-fiancée’s. To force the mother to help him. Her name’s Megan Collings and she lives at”—I looked at Trella, covered the phone. Trella whispered the address.—“at Three-twenty-three West Eighty-first. I don’t know if she’s there now. She knows where Lydia is.”
“What?”
“But she won’t tell me, won’t even meet me, until I find her baby.”
“She’ll tell me! I’ll come down on her like—”
“Yeah. Maybe. If you can find her. That’s why I’m telling you about it.”
“How do you know about it? About her?”
“Found her phone number. The thing is, she’s already committed some serious crimes helping Kevin out. She’s not sure anything I said to her was true. Part of her thinks I’m a cop trying to trap her.”
“Why would—”
“She’s not thinking straight. In fact I’d say she’s halfway out of her mind, and she’s waiting for me to call and say I have the baby. Until that happens I’m not sure she’ll hear anything else.”
“Give me the number.”
I flipped open Kevin’s phone and read it to her.
“If it has a GPS—”
“Kevin will have taken care of that,” I said.
“Maybe. But if I can get her to talk to me and keep her talking—”
“Great, go ahead. Good luck. I’m not even sure she’ll answer if it’s not Kevin’s number calling. But try it, that’s why I’m giving it to you. We—I think the baby’s somewhere near Times Square. That’s where Kevin’s heading. To get the baby.”
“Where? Why do you think that?”
“Some things Kevin said last time he called. I don’t know where. But I’m going to look.”
“I’ll send people up there. But it’s a big neighborhood.”
“So’s downtown, where Lydia is.”
“For God’s sake, Bill! We won’t stop one search because we’re doing the other.”
“I know,” I said wearily. “And maybe you’ll find Lydia. And maybe you can find Megan, and maybe you can find the baby. Maybe you’ll spot Kevin and make him give it all up. But until then I’m not coming in; I’m going to search, too.” I clicked off.
“Christ,” said Joey, after a moment’s quiet. “I know some wackos, I’ll give ya that, but this shit—Jesus. A baby! Where we headed? His place? Up near where we picked him up before?”
“Up near there, but it’s not his place,” I said. “He lived in Queens when he got out. A halfway house. Hard to hide a stolen baby in a halfway house. Anyhow, the cops’ll have been all over it by now. Anything to find, they’ll have found it.”
“You been there?”
“No, but I had someone there. Apparently his room’s so empty you could just about believe he was never there at all.”
Joey nodded in sympathy. “Probably he wasn’t. I’ve known a couple, three guys like that.”
I lit a cigarette, regarded him. “What do you mean? You’ve known guys like what?”
“Guys when they come out,” Joey said, “Like, say, Cueball. Danny Santori, Trella, remember him?”
“Louie Leopard’s brother-in-law? With the shiny head?”
“Yeah, him. He pulled a ten-year bid, served six and change.”
“He ran a chop shop.”
“Right. When he came out they sent him to a halfway house, finish out his sentence. Couldn’t take it.”
“Why, too many people around or something?”
“Nah, he was okay with that. Reminded him of stir, being crowded in with other guys. No, problem was just what you wouldn’t think. House was too nice, Cueball’s room was too big, too sunny. Too much to think about. Where to sit, where to stow your stuff, how to arrange the furniture. Sunshine kept getting in his eyes, he could hear birds singing. Shit like that. Tell ya, he couldn’t stand it. He was there as little as he could get away with. In at curfew, out first thing in the morning. Rented a dump in the old neighborhood. Down the street from Louie Leopard, you know? Came rolling in every day, couple cappuccinos for breakfast, pasta for lunch, smoked cigars, kept the blinds down. Happy as a pig in shit. Like I say, I seen it before. Some guys, especially it’s been a long stretch, just being back in the world’s hard enough. They need to be in a place like where they came from, or they don’t make it.”
I’d been half-listening, focused out the window as though a neon sign might be flashing around the corner: BABY HERE! As I lit another cigarette, though, something penetrated. I turned to the backseat. “You guys hear that? Listen, what if Kevin never did anything but sleep at the halfway house? What if he’s had another place since he came out? And he brought the baby there?”
“Yeah, okay, but where, dude?”
I had no answer. Tentatively, Joey offered, “With Cueball, it was in the old neighborhood. Dark and small, right on the street, you know? That’s what he was after.”
“But also,” Trella said, “it’s what he was used to. Not just from prison, from before, too. All those Santoris, they grew up in small dark dumps.”
“You got that right,” Joey agreed.
The car fell silent and I
went back to looking at the street. What he was used to. What was Kevin used to? From the Upper East Side to ten years in prison. I want a condo, or maybe a brownstone . . . What you want, but is that the same as what you’re used to? Kevin, what was it? If you couldn’t take the halfway house, if you wanted what you were used to, where would that be?
“Dude?”
Disoriented for a second, I pulled myself back to the car. “Linus? What?”
“I don’t know,” he said uncomfortably. “Just, you’re talking to yourself.”
“Fuck!” I chucked the cigarette out the window, lit another one right away. “Fuck! Goddamn this shit! All day, no matter how deep shit we were in, Kevin was going to call again. We were—we were hooked in. Connected. Now we’ve got nothing. A baby, Lydia, both need help, both going to die and we have nothing! Nothing. Fucking nothing!”
“Dude? You’re wrong.”
“What? What do we have? One thing, Linus. Name me one fucking thing!”
“We have you.”
“Oh, fuck that! Knock that shit off, Linus! All this, it’s my fault in the first place. I’m not a fucking hero. I can’t pull this out of the air!”
“Dude? That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what the fuck do you mean?”
“Mr. Crazy,” he said slowly. “This whole thing, this whole game, was because of how you sent him to prison back in the day.”
“Thanks a lot. You think that’s news? Like I said, my goddamn fault. Jesus, I wish to God I’d left it alone, wish I’d let the cops screw it up and not tried to show off how smart I was. Son of a bitch!”
“No. Dude. Listen. Because of how you sent him to prison. The cops couldn’t do it. You could, because you knew how he thought. You made it a game, to outplay him. You said.”
“Yeah, me and him, great game players.”
“Dude! You knew how he thought then. That’s why it worked. So do it again. Know how he thought now.”
I stared wordlessly at him. Both kids in the backseat kept their steady, confident gazes on me. I looked away, and after a moment rubbed a hand down my face. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Okay. I’m Kevin.” I nodded. “I’m out, after ten years. I’ve spent the whole time fixated on this guy I hate, and on getting my life back. Twin obsessions. I’m going to waste him, and then go about getting what I should’ve had.” I shut my eyes, thought back to the days on the basketball court, the Kevin I’d known; and to the jagged phone calls, the elaborate setups of this day. “I’m out. And first thing, they send me to a halfway house. I can’t deal. Why? Not because—not like Cueball.” I opened my eyes and my words sped up. “Not it’s too big, too bright. What it is, it’s in Queens. That outer borough thing, Kevin was always ragging on the bridge-and-tunnel crowd. Didn’t want anything to do with such uncool people. If I’m Kevin, I’m out and I want to be back in the world. If I’m Kevin, I came to Manhattan.”
Linus nodded encouragingly, then prompted, “To your old neighborhood?”
“No. No, because the Upper East Side’s old news now. I’m cool, remember, I’m hip? I’m erasing my ten years in prison, it never happened. I’m picking up where I left off. When I went in, the Upper East Side was hot, but now, only old farts live there. So my new place, it’s in a neighborhood that’s hot now. The hottest in Manhattan.”
“The Meatpacking District,” Trella said. “But there’s not a lot there, and no rentals. Did you buy?”
“No. Because it’s not permanent. I just have this one thing to do, get rid of this guy I hate, and then I’m going to split and start a new life. New York can go to hell. I’m going—shit, I’m going to LA. Movies, TV, be a big producer. That’s where the coolest people are. No, I didn’t buy in this town. I rented.”
“Where, then? Maybe just south of the Meatpacking District, the Village?”
“No. Again, old news, and also, old buildings. Families and kids. If I’m Kevin and I’m renting, I want a loft, a new glass building or a luxury conversion. Big views. An address that the hip crowd understands, not familyland. Chelsea.” I was stone certain. “North of the Meatpacking District. Galleries. Unmarked clubs with velvet ropes. The High Line. Big lofts, hot boutiques. The center of the action. That’s where I am.”
In five minutes, we were there. It’s not a huge neighborhood, Chelsea, and I’d called Mary (“What the hell do you mean, he had a place in Chelsea?” “Mary, later. Send people there.”) so there’d be a swarm of cops not too long from now. But now it was just us. And “not huge” still meant blocks and blocks, building after building of converted industrial lofts and costly new condos.
“Okay,” I said. “We need to split up. All I can think of, we go building to building. The biggest ones, the newest. Look at the directories, ask the doormen—”
“Wait,” said Trella suddenly. “There.”
“What?” I looked out her side of the car. No CAVANAUGH BUILDING, no BABY HERE sign. A day care center? A foundling hospital? I saw nothing useful.
She pointed to the corner. I asked in disbelief, “What? The Chinese restaurant?”
“Grand Hunan,” she said. “It’s famous.”
“It’s fantastic,” Linus agreed, but with a quizzical look at her. “Best in New York, as good as my mom’s— Oh! Oh, dudess, I get it!”
I got it too, that same second. I jumped from the car, Linus and Trella with me. Inside, I didn’t give the cashier a chance to say a word. I flashed my wallet badge. “Get the manager.”
Taken aback, she hesitated, then called in Chinese to a waiter lounging in the back. He pushed through the swinging doors, returned with a smiling middle-aged man. Through the inset windows we saw a whirlwind hit the kitchen as everyone of dubious immigration status scrambled out the back. Customers watched us with brief interest, then went back to their meals.
“Yes, can I help you?” the manager inquired pleasantly, blocking my path to the kitchen and casting a skeptical eye on Linus and Trella.
“Deliveries,” I said. “A big guy, looks kind of like me. Kevin Cavanaugh’s his name. He’s ordered I don’t know how many times over the last couple months. He’s a regular.”
“Yes?”
“Where? I need to know where he lives.”
“I’m sorry. The deliverymen, all out.”
“All out back. I saw them go. Get them in here. We’re not the INS. I don’t care about their papers. I just need to find this guy.”
Linus had been swiping at his iPhone; now he handed it to me with Kevin’s photo on the screen, one of the ones we’d been sent from the street. The manager smiled again. “I’m sorry—”
“So’s everyone else. He’s a killer and he kidnapped a woman and a baby. They’ll die if we don’t find them!”
The manager paled, but still hesitated. Linus stepped up. “She’s my cousin,” he said. “The woman he kidnapped. My family, you know? They want me to find her.”
The manager raised his eyebrows at Linus, then shifted his gaze to me and Trella.
“They’re helping me,” Linus explained. He added, “He’s not a cop. It’s a phony badge.”
The manager frowned, but after a long moment he blew out a breath. He spoke in Chinese to the waiter. The waiter trotted back through the kitchen doors, punching buttons on a cellphone. The delivery guys, I guessed, were waiting for an all-clear signal. The waiter crossed the nearly empty kitchen to the back door, returned a few moments later with four jumpy men. The manager said something in Chinese, which didn’t relax them. To Linus, he said, “Go ahead, you may talk to them.”
Linus spoke to the men in Chinese so clumsy even I could hear it. They all stared, uncomprehending. Linus turned to the manager. “They don’t speak Cantonese?”
“Fujianese. Or Mandarin.”
Linus looked abashed. “I can’t . . .”
The manager pursed his lips in disapproval. He turned to the men and spoke, gesturing at Linus. Linus showed them the iPhone photo. Two of them shook their heads. The third man’s eyebrows fl
ew up. He started to say something. Then the fourth, a tall, hard-looking man, spoke to him sharply. They exchanged brief sentences. Color drained from the shorter man’s face. He looked at Linus again and shook his head.
26
“What just happened?” I demanded.
“Dude, I’m not sure.” Linus turned to the manager of Grand Hunan. “This guy recognized him but this guy told him not to.”
The manager spoke to both men in Chinese, then came back to Linus. “Lo Shu says he made a mistake.”
“Bullshit!” I exploded. “He knows him! He knows where he lives!”
The manager, raising his eyebrows, questioned the man again. “He says he can’t help you.”
“Dude.” Linus grabbed my arm before I could lunge for Lo Shu. “Stay back. Let me try this Chinese-on-Chinese.” He crooked a finger at the delivery man and walked to an empty table. Lo Shu, sweating, glanced from the tall man to the manager. The tall guy scowled but the manager gestured sharply for Lo Shu to follow. Barely reining myself in, I watched as Linus grabbed a paper napkin and set a pen racing across it. Lo Shu’s brow furrowed as he leaned in to read; then, unexpectedly, he laughed. He spoke to Linus, who shrugged and offered him the pen. Lo Shu took it and flattened another napkin. They wrote Chinese characters at each other fast and furiously.
“What’s he doing?” I asked Trella.
“He doesn’t speak Chinese well.”
“I know that!”
“But he can read and write it some. Poetry and the classics, from Chinese school when he was a kid.”
“I remember he said that. But does he think—”
“I guess he does.”
And he was right.
They wrote together for two or three minutes. By the time they put down their pens Linus was sweating as much as Lo Shu had been. Lo Shu, though, was grinning. They stood, Linus making a quick bow. The manager stepped to them and spoke to Linus, then Lo Shu. I watched the manager’s head swiveling as his translation bounced back and forth. The tall man came forward, too, objected, but Lo Shu shushed him, jollied him along. After a dozen sentences Linus bowed to the manager, who rolled his eyes.
